


il mio niccolò

by lavolpe (lykxxn)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Comfort, Ezio and Volpe get a little bit drunk, Ezio does stuff he regrets, Family Fluff, Father Figures, Gen, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Slash if you squint, Swearing in Italian, There's actually a lot of swearing in this, nightly conversations, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6936247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/lavolpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nineteen years old and newly inducted into the Brotherhood, Niccolò Machiavelli is lost, lonely and afraid. Hiding beneath a mask of professionalism, La Volpe worries and Ezio shows concern for the young man, whose behaviours are unusual to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	il mio niccolò

After Ezio’s formal induction into the Brotherhood, he is eager to get to know the others who are working towards a similar goal.

He and La Volpe join a young man named Machiavelli, sitting alone with naught but a glass of wine to keep him company.

“Where are you from?” prompts Volpe.

“Firenze,” mutters Machiavelli.

“How old are you?” asks Ezio in genuine curiosity. He _does_ look young.

Machiavelli’s face goes from a shade of pink to almost white. “Nineteen,” he murmurs, barely heard over the excited chatters in Teodora’s brothel.

“Young, then,” says Volpe animatedly. “Barely a boy, am I right, Ezio?”

Ezio thinks he has perhaps had too much to drink.

Machiavelli excuses himself. They do not see him again that night.

* * *

The next time Ezio sees Machiavelli is in Firenze. The young man does not seem too pleased to be in his hometown, but any expressions are quickly masked into professionalism.

But Ezio knows that eventually all masks will either fall or break, as Machiavelli’s does.

The young man is staring into the Arno, and Ezio approaches quietly, careful not to disturb the peace. Gently he places a hand on Machiavelli’s back, and it stuns him to feel tremors and goosebumps upon his fingertips.

“Machiavelli?” he asks quietly, aware that the young man is shaking at his touch. There is fear in Ezio’s voice, worry that he has done something wrong.

The shaking does not stop. If anything, it gets worse, and Ezio is ashamed that it has taken so long to realise that Machiavelli is _crying_. Is he really so bad at understanding human emotion? Has he really been so cut off from others that he has failed to recognise his ally’s discomfort?

Ezio moves closer and gently rubs his back soothingly. Whatever has upset Machiavelli is something that is of concern to him.

“Let us go somewhere more private, hmm?” he asks softly, and when Machiavelli does not protest, they head in the direction of Paola’s, Ezio still rubbing his back and the young man scrubbing at his eyes despite the constant stream of tears.

Paola clucks at them both and quickly sets Machiavelli down, and the situation is immediately out of Ezio’s hands.

“ _Tesoro_ , what is the matter?” she murmurs, taking Machiavelli’s hands in hers and rubbing them. “Is it—” She pauses and looks to Ezio. “Would you like it to be just us?”

It is at this moment that Ezio remembers that Machiavelli is only nineteen. He is, as Volpe said, barely a boy.

The boy shrugs. “ _N-non lo so_ ,” he sniffles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Worry clouds Paola’s gaze. “Ezio, how quickly do you think you can finish this job?”

“I’ve taken out four of them,  _signora_ ,” he says. “I can be ready by tomorrow morning, if that will suffice.”

Ezio can tell by the look on Machiavelli’s face that that is still not going be quick enough, but there is nothing more that can be done. Ezio  _needs_ to retrieve the Apple from Savonarola.

* * *

 It is a shame, Ezio thinks, that Machiavelli looks such a deflated man.

But Volpe is different. He, with his all-seeing eyes, notices his every move. It is a shame, Volpe thinks, that memories have reduced Machiavelli to such skittish and fearful behaviour. And Volpe swears, if the senior Machiavelli is alive, there will be hell to pay if the two ever meet.

“Are we ready to go?” he asks gently, and Ezio is surprised by the change in tone. 

Machiavelli nods mutely, and it is not hard to see that he just wants to be rid of this place. Volpe is somewhat blind in terms of caring for people, but he gets the idea that if he’s gentle and soft-spoken and doesn’t raise his voice, everything should go fine.

* * *

They take a carriage to Monteriggioni. It is the closest, safest place Ezio can think of. Ezio takes the reins, leaving Volpe and Machiavelli to rest in the carriage.

Machiavelli. Ezio unconsciously furrows his brows. Machiavelli. The man confuses him.

He doesn’t understand Volpe’s actions at towards him, either. It is not in a fox’s nature to be gentle and kind. But here is a fox being gentle and kind.

He stops the mare just outside the stables and dismounts. He opens the carriage door, eyes widening at the scene before him. Machiavelli is sitting with his head on Volpe’s chest, both of them fast asleep and Volpe snoring softly. Ezio chuckles fondly. If only he had a way of capturing this moment forever.

Quietly he steps into the carriage and shakes Volpe awake. The fox stares blearily at him for a few moments before giving Machiavelli a gentle shake. “Niccolò,” he says softly. “Niccolò, we’re here.”

Machiavelli whimpers, bringing one arm up to shield his face as he wakes. “I’m awake,” he mumbles sleepily.

“I’ll go up and tell Mario we’re here,” says Ezio, as Machiavelli stretches his legs a little and looks considerably more awake than before.

Volpe turns to Niccolò as soon as Ezio leaves. “Come on,  _piccolo volpe_ , it is time to go.”

Niccolò rubs his eyes and looks fairly helpless for a good few moments before he stands up without so much as a protest.

Volpe knows why. And if Niccolò’s father were here he’d give him what for without a second thought.  _Bastardo_.

* * *

Dinner is a strange affair for Niccolò. The table is loud with Claudia, Ezio, Mario and Volpe’s chatters, much unlike the quietness and strictness of home. There is also not a set meal: Mario’s cook has made a variety of different things for them to choose from and put on their plates.

Niccolò is hesitant at first, but plops a couple of meatballs on his plate and, at Mario’s insistence, some salad and a handful of pasta.

“So, Volpe, my oldest friend,” and Mario smirks, and the conversation goes off somewhere Niccolò cannot follow. Claudia has put some grapes on his plate, and he appreciates the thought, but he isn’t hungry.

Still, he has half a meatball left too, so he really ought to eat everything on his plate. It would be rude not to.

Besides, it isn’t as if he has any other choice. His father doesn’t like him letting good food go to waste. He should assume his father’s rules are the same here, right?

He is in the middle of cutting the meatball into a smaller piece when the conversation stops suddenly. Niccolò feels a chill run up his spine and he freezes, almost shaking as a hand presses onto his shoulder.

Has he done something wrong? Is there a rule at Mario’s that he doesn’t know about and so he hasn’t followed? Niccolò whimpers. He knows the consequence for not following a rule.

And then La Volpe’s voice breaks through the fuzziness of his fear, gentle and clear. “You don’t have to force that food in if you’re not hungry. You can leave it.”

“But I don’t want your food to go to waste,” mumbles Niccolò, aware that most of the table, with the exception of Maria, have their eyes on him.

“Trust me,  _aquilotto_ , nothing here goes to waste,” says Mario.

And true to his word, the food is mostly all eaten by the time dinner is finished. Niccolò engages in shy conversation with Claudia, who encourages him to talk about his hobbies. Truth be told, he is exhausted. The journey from Firenze and the meal have left him worn out.

Ezio glances at Volpe, and the two smile fondly at Niccolò who is mostly half-asleep as Claudia talks to him. She knows what she is doing, Ezio figures. If she talks at him for long enough he’ll doze off.

“I am going to retire for the night,” says Volpe, rising from his chair. “If Ezio would be kindest to show me my room — Niccolò,  _il mio piccolo volpe_ , it is time for you to get some rest.”

Niccolò yawns and clutches at Volpe’s cape, burying his head into the fox’s chest as he stumbles sleepily forward. Volpe puts a hand on his back, guiding him forward. He wants to lift him up and carry him to bed, but it would not do to baby him. He is not a child, nor would he want to be treated like one.

* * *

Niccolò settles into Monteriggioni life well. During the day, he discusses Assassin business and is mostly quiet.

It is at night when the trouble starts.

The first night reveals La Volpe’s suspicions. He has never been so furious in his life.

But what can he do about it other than comfort Niccolò and promise that nothing will happen to him here? He does what he can. When he wants comfort, he gives him comfort. When he is afraid, he gives him courage.

* * *

Ezio has never yelled at Niccolò before, so when he does, it is a surprise to both of them.

Ezio regrets it the moment the words “Just leave me alone, alright?” leave his mouth.

Niccolò’s face falls and he is pale and shaky. “ _Bene_ ,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry I’m in your way.”

And Ezio curses himself, because he knows that look. There is fear in his eyes; fear that he will be struck or beaten. “I didn’t mean that,  _capretto,_ ” says Ezio quickly. “I—I just need some time alone, is that okay?”

Niccolò doesn’t need to answer. Ezio knows that no, that is not okay. So the two spend quiet time together in the living room playing with an old, battered chess set Mario found in his attic. Ezio is surprised at the young assassin’s skill.

Quietly Ezio says, “You thought I would hurt you?”

“I—I don’t know,” stammers Niccolò, not wanting to hurt Ezio’s feelings.

He knows it means yes anyway. “Look, I know this might not mean much to you, but no matter how angry I might be or how frustrated or even  _drunk_ , I will never  _ever_ lay a finger on you, and that is my promise, and I assume it is La Volpe’s, too. And if—if I ever, for some stupid reason, if I ever break that promise, then you have my permission to beat the  _everliving shit_ out of me.”

Niccolò blinks at him, stunned. “ _Bene_ ,” he says slowly, and then, “Checkmate.”

Niccolò has won the game just the way he has won Ezio’s heart.

* * *

“What are we?” asks La Volpe one early Monday morning.

“Excuse me?”

“What are we to each other? What are we to  _Niccolò_?”

Ezio shrugs. “How the fuck do I know? We’re just two friends with a common interest: caring for someone who needs us.”

* * *

It stuns Ezio to see Machiavelli go to Roma; it stuns him to see the closest person to a brother walk out on him.

But he sees Machiavelli trying to protect him the way he was protected; he sees the accommodation in Roma and knows it was Machiavelli’s work.

Since Machiavelli has returned to his old self, Ezio assumes his old position as nothing more than a fellow assassin.

His position is a strangely empty one. He no longer looks into the eyes of Mario’s  _aquilotto_. He no longer sees a  _piccolo volpe_ ’s smile. Ezio has to face it: Niccolò is no longer his  _capretto_.

Niccolò is no longer Niccolò.

* * *

Ezio cannot believe the cheek of it. He is seething as he returns to the hideout. How  _dare_ Volpe accuse Machiavelli!

He trains to vent his anger, punching the mannequin in perfectly poised places, his fists burning and probably bruised; a hand on his shoulder startles him and without a moment of thought, he reaches back to punch the offender in the face.

Machiavelli stumbles away, clutching his nose in pain.

“ _Merda_!” exclaims Ezio in surprise. 

“What the fuck was that for,  _stronzo_?” scowls Machiavelli. He releases the hold on his nose. Ezio is glad it isn’t bleeding; he’s guilty enough already.

Ezio does not expect the punch back. Nor does he expect Machiavelli to walk away without saying what he came for.

It is only late at night, when he is lying alone in the dark, that he realises the truth.

He has broken his promise.

* * *

Machiavelli semi-forgives him. They talk frequently until the Siege of Viana. When Ezio returns he is distant and quiet.

Finally, Machiavelli breaks the silence between them. “I’m leaving,” he says gently. “I’m going to Firenze.”

Ezio frowns but says nothing.

* * *

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks later on, his glass of wine shaking in his hand.

“Not at all,” says Volpe quietly, steadying Ezio’s glass with his own hand.

“Then why is he leaving?” Emotion seeps into his voice, and Ezio finally has to admit to himself that he cares for Niccolò — and God damn it, he  _loves_ him.

“He’s grown up now,” says Volpe quietly. “That’s what they do, children. They grow up and slip through your fingers like feathers.”

“He’s my  _capretto_ ,” says Ezio pitifully.

“And he’s my  _piccolo volpe_. And you know what? He always will be. But it’s time to let him go, Ezio.”

“What are we?” asks Ezio.

Volpe chuckles fondly. “Two friends with a common interest: caring for someone who needed us.”


End file.
